James Craig: Man of Sorrows

‘She’s already asked for a doctor for her client and informed me that she will be making a formal complaint.’

Big surprise. ‘Have you got one?’

‘He’s on his way.’

‘Who is it?’

‘Weber.’

‘Okay.’ That, at least, was a sliver of good news. Carlyle had known Dr Thomas Weber for three or four years. He was a stereotypical efficient German, with more than his fair share of good sense. At the very least, he would do nothing to make the situation worse. ‘When he gets here, tell him to wait till we call him down.’

Price looked doubtfully at Carlyle but nodded.

Appearing at his shoulder, Roche ushered him past the desk and down the corridor leading to the basement. ‘Let me deal with this,’ she said, once Price was out of earshot.

Stopping at the top of the stairs, Carlyle looked at her, surprised.

‘I’ll handle Slater,’ she said, a gentle insistence in her voice. ‘You go upstairs and get going on your report.’

Carlyle started to protest, then thought better of it. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Thanks.’

‘It’s no problem,’ she said, slipping down the stairs and out of sight.

Sitting next to Father Francis McGowan, Abigail Slater cut an imperious figure. Even sitting down, it was clear that she was an unusually tall woman. At well over six foot, she towered over her client. Thin, but not too thin, in a well-cut black suit and pearl-white blouse buttoned at the neck, her hard grey eyes locked on Roche as the sergeant entered the interview room. Sipping from a small bottle of Evian, Slater suspiciously watched the policewoman take a seat at the table. Slouched in his seat, looking half-asleep, McGowan failed to acknowledge her arrival.

‘Where is Inspector Carlyle?’ the lawyer asked, replacing the cap on the plastic bottle. ‘We have been waiting . . .’ she glanced at an expensive-looking watch, ‘a ridiculously long time.’

‘The inspector,’ said Roche primly, not offering her hand, ‘is attending to other matters. I am his colleague, Alison Roche. I will be conducting this part of the interview.’

Taking a business card from the pocket of her jacket, Slater passed it across the table.

Roche picked up the card. Abigail Slater, Director, Catholic Legal Network . ‘What’s the Catholic Legal Network?’

‘I am Father McGowan’s legal representative,’ Slater replied. She pointed at the priest. ‘As you can see, my client has been viciously assaulted.’

Roche looked at McGowan’s face. Happily, apart from some red marks on his neck, there was no sign of any bruising. She kept her expression studiously neutral and said nothing.

‘I have asked for a doctor.’

‘He’s on his way.’

‘And I want the tape of the interview,’ Slater pointed at the remains of the security camera hanging from the wall, ‘before your colleague went berserk and smashed the equipment.’ Biting her lip, she tried to suppress a smirk. ‘As you must be aware, this will signal the immediate end of his career in the police force.’ She tapped the file of papers on the desk in front of her with a ruby-red nail. ‘Criminal charges will undoubtedly follow.’

Roche took a deep breath and told herself to remain calm. ‘The camera has been out of service for several weeks now,’ she said evenly. ‘Your allegations are extremely serious. They will, of course, be investigated thoroughly.’

Slater nodded, waiting politely for the ‘ but ’.

Roche, knowing that she was not going to disappoint, allowed herself the smallest of smiles. ‘However,’ she continued, ‘I have been present when your client has been interviewed and I can confirm that he has been properly treated at all times.’

Rousing himself, McGowan started to protest but the lawyer put a firm hand on his arm. ‘Has he now?’ she said softly.

‘Yes, he has.’

‘I hope you’re sure about that, Sergeant. Or maybe the inspector won’t be the only one facing charges.’

‘I would remind you,’ Roche said sternly, ‘that we are investigating the case of a young boy who has gone missing – a young boy who, along with several others, has made some extremely grave allegations against your client.’

‘Petty gossip,’ the lawyer said dismissively. ‘Across the whole world, there is hardly a priest left who hasn’t been accused of something. These days, we are just an easy target.’

Roche pulled her up. ‘We?’

‘The Church.’

‘Ah.’ Roche nodded, happy to move the conversation away from Carlyle.

‘The Church gets the blame for everything.’ Slater waved a careless hand in the air. ‘Invariably, it’s just people jumping on the bandwagon, trying to make some easy money.’

Roche looked at McGowan and then back to his lawyer. ‘Your client, however, has a criminal record.’

‘Which is unfortunate,’ the lawyer conceded, ‘but that was all a long time ago. It is a matter of historical interest only.’

‘I see.’

‘It does not,’ Slater said angrily, ‘justify this ongoing campaign of police harassment, culminating in his arrest last night and today’s outrageous behaviour by your colleague.’

‘Father McGowan is refusing to assist with our enquiries,’ Roche said stiffly. ‘What does he have to hide?’

‘He is not in a position to help,’ said Slater, ignoring the complaint. ‘He knows nothing.’

Roche pocketed the lawyer’s business card and got to her feet. ‘I will send Dr Weber down when he arrives,’ she said, pulling open the door. ‘After he has examined your client, you are free to go. We will be in touch.’

The warning shot went off less than a foot from her head. When the ringing stopped, Paula realized that she was deaf in her left ear. Through the haze of an appalling headache, she watched people fleeing down the street from the advancing gunmen. They were heading south, moving steadily towards Piccadilly. Paula thought that she could hear the police sirens getting closer, but she wasn’t sure. Suddenly, a hand grabbed her by the arm and pulled her down an empty alleyway. At the bottom was a cobbled courtyard, just off Avery Row. At the far end was a slightly wider exit, leading on to what Paula knew was Grosvenor Street. In the courtyard was a black London taxi cab and a navy Vespa 125 cc scooter.

The white guy pulled open the back of the taxi and poked her inside, jumping in behind her and closing the door. ‘Act normal, bitch,’ he ordered.

Paula glanced in the rearview mirror to see the black guy hand the plastic bag full of jewellery to a third guy in a crash helmet, who stuck it in the helmet box on the back of the scooter.

‘Hey!’ Sticking his gun into the waistband of his trousers, the white guy reached across the seat and gave her a slap around the back of the head. ‘The less you see, the less trouble you’re in.’

Paula obediently lowered her gaze.

‘That’s more like it.’

Keeping her eyes on the floor, Paula listened to the scooter move carefully out of the courtyard and into heavy traffic. Once she could no longer make out the sound of the scooter’s engine above the general hum of traffic noise, she lifted her eyes. Despite the ringing in her ears, she could clearly hear the police and ambulance sirens now. They seemed to be coming from all directions. The net’s closing in , Paula thought. She suddenly realized that might not be a good thing and felt her stomach do a somersault. Once again, she squeezed her legs together and hoped that her bladder would not give out.

‘Just look fucking normal.’ The white guy tried to smile, but all Paula could see was the tension etched across his face.

‘Let’s go.’ Jumping behind the wheel, the black guy reached under the seat and pulled out a Chelsea baseball cap. Ramming it down on his head, the brim over his eyes, he started the ignition. There was a loud click as the passenger doors were locked. Switching off the ‘For Hire’ sign, he carefully steered the cab out of the courtyard.